Pickleballers

Chapter Sixteen

Sixteen

The early-evening sunlight cast net-shadows of elongated crisscrosses onto the blue pavement. From the silver arch that marked the Founders Courts’ entrance, Meg’s pulse bumped up a notch when she spotted Ethan stretching his leg over the bench of the picnic table. The way his smile sprang up when he noticed her sprinkled her with flattering confetti. He straightened and bowed theatrically. “Welcome, Lady of the Pickleball. We have-eth reserve-ed this spot-eth for the full hour.”

“Whatever you do,” she quipped, and tipped her cap, “don’t quit your consulting job for a Shakespearean acting career.” But truth be told, she was charmed to be the target of his flirtation.

They set up on the neatly painted courts, and Ethan suggested she retreat to the baseline and practice her drops into the no-volley zone. Ah, she thought, so he really did intend to practice pickleball, and today’s plan was not some elaborate ruse to sneak off with her and have sex behind the courts—as she had hoped.

With Ethan’s attentions pegged on her, she flubbed her first shot and sent the second bouncing onto a picnic table. The third-shot drop was a tricky move that required unyielding attention, and since she was distracted by Ethan’s presence, her success rate was about one in four. Once in a while, she managed to hit a searing drop. Alternatively, she whacked the ball with too much force, and it went flying into the net.

To Meg’s dismay, Ethan’s focus was all business. “You have the skill, but you’re inconsistent. You can’t let the game get in your head. Let your limbs move freely. Don’t overthink it,” he observed after they had been playing for a bit. “Give your body the chance to do what it wants. The body knows best, better than your brain.”

Easy for him to say when he is standing there looking all edible and talking about moving bodies . She swatted at the ball, all the while watching him on the other side of the net. His taut calves compressed with his steps. His shirt lifted to reveal a thin arrow of hair on his muscled abdomen. An arrow that pointed directly to…Now that was what her body wanted. Maybe her brain, too. Either way, it became more and more difficult to keep her eye, both literally and figuratively, on the ball.

“Let’s take a break.” His words sounded muffled to her daydream-riddled brain. He strode to the picnic table to grab his water bottle, and she watched his Adam’s apple bob when he took a deep drink. He said something more, but she was mesmerized by the sexy sheen of sweat beading on his collarbone…

“Right?” he asked. She had missed the question.

“Sorry. You were saying?”

“Just that you have the skills, but you have to put the confidence behind your swing.”

“I know. I know,” she said, forcing away her lusty thoughts. She knew Ethan was right. Here was an opportunity to improve; she must not waste it. If she and Rooster managed to secure Lakeview’s beginners’ slot, she didn’t want to be a lead pipe attached to Rooster’s helium balloon. Practicing with one’s top competitor may have been unwise, but if it gave her an advantage, it would be worth it.

With her attention back on her pickleskills, the next hour flew by, and when they realized that nobody else had reserved the courts, they decided to play on. Forty minutes into their bonus time, Meg pushed through the mental and physical fatigue and landed in that rhythmic, hypnotic state of pure adrenaline. Cushioned by the addictive embrace of pickleball, all other distractions vanished. She thrilled when she put a slice to the back corner right past him and won the point.

“Woo-hoo,” she cheered. “That might have been the greatest sports highlight of my life.”

Laughing, he added, “With the way you’ve been improving, I bet you’ve got a lot more where that came from.”

It was a magnetic trait, his habit of being generous with his faith in her. Meg beamed at the compliment, especially coming from a real athlete. “Were you always a jock?” she asked.

Ethan scoffed. “Not at all. You should have seen me in middle school. But…No. Forget it.”

“Come on,” she urged. “I won a point off you. I should get something. Truth or dare. Tell me your most embarrassing middle school sports moment.”

“Don’t I get to choose truth or dare?”

“Not this time. Most embarrassing moment. Spill it.”

“Okay.” He winced at the memory and prepped himself with a shake of his head. “In middle school, I was on the small side and kind of a pudgy guy. And the gym uniforms didn’t fit right. So my mom found a substitute shirt with a picture of the school mascot, a tiger, on the front. I didn’t pay much attention to the back, but apparently it said Tiger Cub .” Ethan paused, drawing out the punch. “After that, the kids all called me Chubby Cubby.” Meg put a hand to her mouth, imagining his mortification. “Yeah. Exactly. Made it hard to get a date in high school,” he joked.

It was hard to picture a younger, awkward Ethan, when this grown-up version was so athletic and confident. Before long, though, he got his retribution when he aced her on a serve.

“First kiss?” he asked, and she told him about the homecoming dance with sponge-tongued Jeff Belger. Fortunately, kisses since then had been on the up and up. Thinking back to her make-out session in the car and the romantic smooch with Ethan on the porch, she grinned. “But I’ve had better since then.”

Back and forth they went, sharing the truth about first loves. Him: Maureen Chen. Fourth grade. They traded Halloween candy, and he let her have all his chocolate. Her: a summer camp fling with Howie Leventhal that ended when the song he “wrote for her” turned out to be by some guy named Keith Urban. The evening light grew golden as they revealed their favorite foods and films and books and worst work experiences. Him: mussel debearder for a local shellfish company. Her: costumed mailbox mascot for a trade show. Meg’s wins were so disproportionately rare that she resorted to cheating to get him to answer some questions, blatantly serving the ball to him when he wasn’t even standing on the court.

“Fine,” he said. “Even though you’re a cheater, I’ll let you have the point. And I’m gonna take a risk here. Let’s see what you come up with. Dare.”

Meg’s eyes slid to the side in thought. Deciding, she said, “I would like to see you perform an interpretive pickleball dance.”

Ethan smirked. “Oh. You want to see the pickledance,” he taunted. “Many, many people have requested the pickledance. And I have not danced.” He hid his face behind the paddle and lowered it dramatically as he revealed his eyes. “But for you, Meg Bloomberg, I will dance.”

Flinging his hand with the pickleball overhead, he struck a powerful pose, somewhere between a bullfighter and a ballerina. To her delight, Ethan issued a series of flamenco steps across the blue pavement, making up a tune to his steps. Then, stopping short with his back to Meg, he froze again, and switched his accompaniment to a raunchy backbeat. Swinging his paddle, he segued into slow and tempting swivels of his hips. Into it now, Ethan dug into the role. He swished and twerked while she cheered her approval. As she applauded, he bumped up the silliness factor on his risqué moves.

Turning his head her way, he announced, “And now, the grand finale.”

Stalking languidly over to the pole supporting the net, he grabbed on with both hands and began to pole dance. She squealed with laughter. Pleased with the effect, he hammed it up, spanking his butt with the paddle and singing, “ Ooo. Pickle-ball. Ooo! Pickle — Oh. Hello.”

Ethan stopped spanking himself and waved cheerily to the old man and woman who stood at the entrance to the court, openmouthed.

Meg shrugged a hand toward Ethan by way of explanation. “Pickleball,” she said, pretty much ensuring that they would never play.

In the wake of the couple’s wordless departure, Meg and Ethan busted out in giggles. Once they cooled down, Ethan said, “Okay. It’s my turn again. Because you cheated to get that dare, you owe me a truth.” He squinted at the sky. “Lemme think of a good one. Ah.” He decided. “Who was the last person you were in love with?”

Meg let out an uncomfortable laugh. For nearly a week now, thankfully, Vance had been the last person on her mind, and she really did not want to get into the whole saga yet. Certainly not when things were going so well with Ethan. She tried to throw him off task.

“You have to play fair,” she teased. “You didn’t win a point, so you don’t get to ask me that. And anyway,” she said, “this truth or dare is distracting me from my pickleball growth trajectory. I have a lot of learning to get in before dark.”

Acquiescing, Ethan gave her arm a tender squeeze before moving back to his side of the net. The sun would set soon, and they put the silliness aside, agreeing to focus on drills while they still had daylight.

The rhythm of play took over. As they hit, her brain and body absorbed Ethan’s graceful, assertive play, learning by his example. She fixed her attention on the bend in his knees when he scooped the ball for a dink shot, and on the flick of his wrist in his slice. She copied his movements, feeling the change in her body as she relaxed into the drills.

Even so, she had miles to go. Arching her back, Meg reached for an overhead slam and whiffed the ball.

“Let me help you with that shot.” And in a blink, Ethan had sailed gracefully over the net and slipped beside her. “Watch,” he said. Ethan tossed a ball into the air. As it reached its zenith, he pointed with his left hand. “Spot the ball with your finger,” he said, snapping the paddle down and sending the ball sailing to the opposite baseline.

“Not only will that help you track the ball, but pointing distracts and intimidates your opponent. They know a slam is coming. And a well-aimed one at that. You gotta get in their heads,” he said, tossing one ball then another and smacking them to the opposite side.

“Pickleball is like any small-team competitive sport. It’s just you against one or two people, so skill is only part of the battle.” Meg watched in amazement as he produced a seemingly endless string of balls from his ample pockets. “You’ve got to psych them out. Show them you came to play. It can be as obvious as your swagger when you walk onto the court, or as subtle as calling out ‘Got it!’ as you point at your intended slam. Grunt or yell as you hit. It freaks out the competition.” Ethan stood behind her, and the warmth coming off his body sent a chill up her neck. “You try it now.”

He placed his fingers on her hip and handed her a ball. Her skin, exposed right at that spot, burned with the heat of his touch. “Throw, point with your left, then bam!”

She tossed the ball. “Now!” he commanded. She lunged forward, so flustered by his nearness that her paddle whiffed the ball. Again.

He shrugged. “Let me take you through it in slow motion.” There was that hand on her hip again, steadying her. He traced his fingers along her forearm, and as they leaned back in unison, he clasped his hand over hers and tipped the paddle down onto the imaginary ball. She’d never imagined practicing pickleball could be so damn sexy.

“That’s it,” he said. “You got it.”

She did have it, and for once she planned to do something about it. She spun toward him in his light hold. “Dare,” she whispered, tilting her face to his.

“I thought you didn’t want to play anymore,” he teased. But his smiling eyes accepted the challenge. His fingers gripped the hem of her crop top and tugged downward, pulling her closer. For an endless second, she absorbed his nearness, the waves of heat between their bodies.

His mouth swept against her neck and he breathed her in. “You smell so good.”

Embarrassed, she giggled. “I’m a little sweaty.”

“I like it.”

Then his lips were on hers. Everything was sensation, rocket lift-offs in every centimeter of her body. His hands traveled along her vertebrae, tracing down her spine and squeezing her hips to his. Her body reacted. Under his touch, she sizzled. This is happening , she thought. A smoking-hot guy was making out with her on a pickleball court. It was like eating chocolate truffles while getting a massage. Could this much pleasure be legal? She dug her hands beneath the hem of his T-shirt and raked the tips of her fingers up toward his ribs.

He laughed suddenly. “All right. All right.” Running a hand through his hair, he stepped back and put his hands on his hips. He shook his head at the pavement. “You’re getting me all…” Forcefully, he blew out the air from his lungs.

Despite herself, Meg grinned, happy to have been the cause of his reaction.

“It’s the pickleball,” she kidded. “It has that effect on a lot of people.”

“If it did, more people would play pickleball.” He collected himself and loped back around to the opposite side of the net. “All right. Give it a try now.”

Meg shook off her distraction and readied herself. She really wanted to impress him. Wanted him to jump back over the net and congratulate her. Mainly, she wanted to kiss him again.

But she wanted to earn it. Concentrating, she tossed the ball overhead, pointed, and swung her paddle arm into the air. She lined up the shot, holding the parabolic trajectory in her sights. Then, targeting his feet, she snapped down hard with her wrist. She struck the ball with force and watched it rocket over the net.

Meg had seen horror movies where the filmmaker slowed the action, underlaid suspenseful music, and zoomed in to focus on the doomed victim’s expression. She just never thought she would see the same moment unfold in real life.

Until now.

The ball powered forward like a slo-mo missile, flying over the net, zipping through the air, picking up speed, and slamming home—directly in the center of Ethan’s shorts. She heard him gasp, watched his features cramp, stared helplessly as his body crumpled into a heap on the court’s hard surface.

Mortified, Meg dropped her paddle and raced to the other side of the net. “Oh my god! Oh my god! Ethan!”

On the asphalt, Ethan writhed. He rocked from side to side but uttered nothing save a high-pitched keening. The sound bounced off the courts and echoed off the distant, snow-capped Olympic Mountains. Far away, from the national forest, Meg thought she heard a moose answer what he must have believed was a mating call.

Throwing herself to her knees beside Ethan, she said, “I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?” Instinctively, she reached toward the wounded area.

Ethan threw his arm up in a defensive block. “No! No!” He twisted his body like a roly-poly. “Let me just”—his face contorted—“lie here a minute.”

With great effort, Ethan rolled onto his side and then lay still as stone, his hands clasped between his thighs.

“What should I do?” Meg fluttered about him, helpless. “I don’t think there’s any ice around here.” She took his unresponsiveness as encouragement for better ideas. “Can I take you to the hospital?”

“I got it under control.” He sucked in his breath.

“Let me give my friend Annie a call. She could come take a look.”

Ethan dipped his brow, hovering between bewilderment and incredulity.

“She’s seen more penises than anyone I know. She’s kind of an expert. Granted, they were little penises.” Meg clarified, “Kids’ penises.”

At that, Ethan’s reaction shifted to horror. “Not like that!” She waved her hands, erasing her previous statements. “She’s a doctor. At Seattle Children’s.”

Shaking his head, Ethan struggled to sit. “Nope. No thanks. I think I’m okay.”

She helped him stand. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. Not only for injuring him, but for breaking the romantic mood. She berated herself immediately for her selfish thoughts, but dang it, things had been going so well and now…

“I’m gonna hop into the bathroom a sec and…check things out. I might be a minute.”

He hobbled into the nearby brick building. For a full minute, Meg waited, her body tense and her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Being a woman had its ups and downs, but at least she could never be hit in the penis with a pickleball.

Without warning, the air was rent with a curdled scream.

The hairs on the back of Meg’s neck jumped to attention. “Everything okay in there?”

For a moment, she heard no response. At last, hoarse and cracked, Ethan’s voice answered, “Yep. Just…peeing.”

·····

A pink and orange glow of evening provided an ironic romanticism to their walk home. They ambled along the shore toward the inn. Ethan set the pace; he still lumbered awkwardly, his movements cautious.

“Before the”—Ethan gestured vaguely at his shorts—“incident. Well, before that, I was thinking. We play well together.”

“You think?”

“Definitely. We have a rhythm. It feels natural. You know what I mean?”

She nodded. It was an easy chemistry they shared—not only on the court, but even here as they meandered along the rocky shoreline. The waves of Puget Sound came in low and deep, and when the water receded, it pulled along the myriad pebbles with a noise like coffee percolating. When he slipped his smooth fingers through hers it felt nice. As comfortable as breathing.

Silently agreeing that the walk to the end of the beach would be challenging, they stopped, taking a seat on a broad driftwood log that formed an ideal bench above the tide line. High on the shoreline, the sand was dry and soft beneath her feet. The smell of seaweed, the cool evening air, and the tinkling of the pebbles pulled by the waves intoxicated Meg, and she made sure to file this moment away to revisit over and over again.

Turning, she found Ethan’s eyes on her. She smiled as he dipped his fingers through her hair and held her with his eyes, steady with focus. Her mind floated, a heady elation that intensified when he closed his eyes and tipped his head to hers. A curling sensation like a perfect wave traveled from her mouth to her belly and down to her toes. The tip of her tongue tasted his warm mouth, and the contrast thrilled her.

“When can I see you again?” he asked into her mouth.

“When you open your eyes,” she answered archly.

Ethan slid off the driftwood log onto the sand and pulled her on top. “How ’bout tomorrow?” he asked. “Or late, late tonight?” Hungrily, she kissed him, allowing her hands to roam to the curve of his shoulders, along his chest, and down to his navel. She gripped his belt buckle and tugged.

“Ah! Ow!” he cried suddenly.

She jumped off him. He crab-scooted backward along the sand, dragging his legs. “Okay. Ow. Ow. Okay.”

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut while Meg looked on, concerned. “Argh!” he groaned, flopping onto his back in the sand. He cursed at the sky. “Well, that sucks.”

“I’m really sorry,” she said again, and helped him to his feet.

“It was an accident.” He tugged her close and gave her a peck on her lips. She leaned into him and deepened the kiss.

“Okay.” Ethan backed up suddenly. “We gotta stop.” He shook his head in dismay. “Or I’m not going to be able to get in the car.”

He pulled her to her feet. As they meandered, Ethan’s arhythmic footsteps crunched against the pebbly beach. Squeezing her hand, he blew out a frustrated breath. “It could be a while,” he said, “before I can…till I can handle it.”

“Or till I can handle it.”

Ethan chuckled seductively. “You know what they say. Absence makes the fond grow harder.”

“I don’t think that’s what they say.”

“Okay. That’s what I say.”

The sunset had melted into dusk with little fanfare, but in the gathering darkness, she felt a palpable dissolving of her past relationship. Closure, and something new, too. On Puget Sound, the base of the marine layer glowed a dull orange and a concurrent heat grew in her chest. When they reached his car, they held hands beside the passenger door, unwilling to let go of each other. Ethan lifted her hand to his lips. Playfully, he kissed the back of her hand, then her thumb, and each of her knuckles, one by one.

Then suddenly, he stiffened.

An odd expression crossed his features. Folding his hand over hers, he gave her fingers a pat, the sort of pat one would give a toothless grandpa who ordered popcorn at the movies. His voice dropped to a businesslike monotone. “I better get you back to the Outlook.”

Meg studied his changed expression, confused. She felt a slow numbing fizzle through her. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Fine.”

But she could tell. It was not fine. His brow hooded his eyes. “Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Um.” The pause was excruciating. “I was just remembering. I don’t think tomorrow’s gonna work out. And I have some other stuff coming up over the next few weeks, so…”

They both knew how lame it sounded. She stared at him, perplexed. Her belly felt hollow, and her legs threatened to give way. What was going on?

He opened the door for her. The small act of chivalry made his sudden detachment all the more painful. Her chest tight, she swallowed hard when she got into the car. He slumped into the driver’s seat and sat there, his attention on a distant thought. She heard him sigh.

“Ethan? Did I say something wrong?”

“No. No.” He opened his mouth to explain. “Nope.” If he had to say it three times, it was obviously a yes. “It has nothing to do with you.” Please don’t say it , she thought. “It’s me,” he muttered.

Dang. He said it.

Ethan pulled the car onto the road, and for the blessedly brief drive, neither one said a word. Her head reeled. Over the past weeks, she had fought off her misguided fury against his well-meaning intentions for Lakeview’s courts. She had allowed him in and reveled in the pleasure of his attentions. Now, for reasons she could not comprehend, he had gone from hot to ice-cold. What the hell had just happened?

·····

The darkness had descended in earnest by the time she trudged up the pebbled path, through the gate of the blank fence, toward the Outlook Inn. The cool night breeze skipped across her skin. Confusion rattled around in her head; Ethan’s sudden shift had thrown her emotions off-kilter, and now she felt sad and mad and confused all at once. Meg’s mind rolled back the tape. What had gone wrong? True, she had smacked him in the crotch with a pickleball. But other than that…

She could make out the lights in their upstairs room at the inn. Thank goodness Annie was here with her on the island. Annie was a constant—solid, sensible, and even-keeled. She would make sense of the situation. Meg was nearly at the steps to the entrance when she halted in place. An odd sound emanated from the hotel’s porch.

What on earth? It sounded like a dog whining, but stranger. Had one of the island’s wild coyotes breached the porch? In the darkness, she could make out a hunched form, the source of the noise. She approached cautiously, her heart in her throat.

“Annie?” All at once she recognized her friend, crunched into the porch’s dark corner. Curled against the wooden floor, Annie leaned on the inn. She was weeping, cradling her phone in her palms.

“Annie! What happened?”

“Mich-uh-uh-l,” she managed. Anguish dampened Annie’s ever-optimistic voice. “Mich-ael Edmonds,” she clarified between her tears.

Meg’s fingernails pressed into her palms. Had Annie discovered Michael’s pickleball betrayal? What a terrible friend Meg was. Once again, she had been so wrapped up in her own story that she’d neglected to help Annie avoid making a crushing mistake. Before Annie went and put herself out there, before she invested herself with that brave kiss, Meg should have been the one to tell her that Michael Edmonds had taken his considerable pickleskills and snuck back to his old Bainbridge pals.

She plopped onto the creaking wood and squeezed in beside her friend. The evening was rapidly becoming an emotional pit of doom, but Meg tried to push her own misery aside. She enveloped her friend in her arms, but Annie continued to sob and shudder until, gradually, her gasps grew farther apart.

With effort, Annie breathed until she calmed. She brushed her bangs off her eyelashes, swallowed hard, and swiped at the tears that left mascara trails on her cheeks.

Steeling herself, Annie held her phone aloft for Meg to see.